


Out of the blue

by Super_Scene_It



Category: Dark Wolverine (Comics), Fantastic Four (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M, wow this is mad fuckin long for no reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Super_Scene_It/pseuds/Super_Scene_It
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daken has a way of showing up when Johnny least expects it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the blue

**Author's Note:**

> set some time after wolverines #4 and f4 #2. if u haven't read it it's no biggie. the details aren't that important. all u need to know is that bc of the events that transpired in those books we now have a powerless johnny and an armless/eyeless daken.  
> for this fic i actually decided to let daken keep his eye—i mean c'mon the guy lost his arm. i figured i'd cut him some slack and let him keep his pretty face. on another note, be aware of daken's pheromones. it's not mentioned when it's in use but keep it in mind as the mood and mindsets constantly change.
> 
> long time shipper but first time writer of these two so yeahhh hopefully it's not that bad (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ

 

 

 

She talks too much. Too much 'I' and 'me' and 'my'. Won't let him get a word in. But she's pretty, so he watches her lips move and memorizes every crease they form beneath the three layers of over-applied lip gloss.

Though he's not listening he knows what she's saying, or at least has a pretty good idea of it, because she talks like the world revolves around her, like she's the only thing worth talking about. And so he imagines she laughs only because she likes the sound of it and smiles at him only to show off. Shallow, not his type, but she's easy and that's the only reason he's still sitting here.

The waiter returns for the occasional beverage refill and her mouth is still running a mile a minute while she's poking around on the screen of her phone. He hears another 'I' and that's when it hits him. Suddenly she reminds him of someone.

 

She reminds him of himself—Johnny Storm.  
Back when he had his powers. When he was the Human Torch. When he was a _somebody_.

Something weird happened during their last battle to save New York and his life hasn't been the same since. It was something no one could explain—not even Reed. One minute he was on fire and the next minute he wasn't. It was just that simple, except it wasn't, because Reed said he'd fix it but it's been over a week. He says he'll find a way but he said the same thing to Ben ten years ago. If he can't reverse it then how the hell could he replicate it?

 

 

The fire... it's just... gone. It's gone, it's lost, and it's not coming back. He felt it the moment it left him. And now he feels nothing but this weird sense of loss.

It's a bad analogy but it's like walking around with no legs—it feels like something is missing, but when you look down everything's right where it should be. So no one questions it. No one sees it. But something is wrong.

As far as this girl and everyone else in New York knows he's still the hero who can light himself on fire. It's not true though. He knows because every time he shouts 'Flame on' nothing happens.

It's 82 degrees out there which means-- he doesn't know what it means. It's been so long since he's had to concern himself with the daily forecast let alone consult the damn weather channel for it. From what he's gathered it's supposed to be hot and somewhat humid, so why does it feel so cold? He shivers even when he's standing right beneath the sun, even when he sweats as a sign of it. The air is cold. So he wears a jacket everywhere he goes just to keep warm. It doesn't do much though he likes to pretend it does. 

And for just one night he'd like to feel something other than this coldness. This dark, growing emptiness.

 

Johnny sips the last of his wine and calls for the check, and together they leave behind a couple of triple digit bills, two completely untouched meals, and a half emptied bottle of red wine.

He can't remember her name but she's holding his hand like he belongs to her and for now he'll let her think that. Her grip is somewhat loose and he's hoping she is too because she's leading him home, though still talking on about only god knows what. Strands of her red hair burns bright like fire under the passing street lights and the sight of it is a mean reminder of what it is he's missing. What it is he wants to forget about. So when he zones back in enough to hear her annoying voice again, because apparently her mouth never tires of movement, he wonders if it's possible to fuck her speechless.

To test the theory, he shuts her up with a kiss the second the key leaves the lock. The door slamming against the inner side wall remains wide open, and even though there's no wind he swears he can feel it beating on his back.

The kiss starts off quick and somewhat rough, yet still somehow slow and gentle enough for him to appreciate the softness of her lips. He likes the feel of them against his own. Reminds him of a girl he once knew. A girl who stomped on his heart when he gave it to her.

For the darkness as their audience, their fumble up the stairs was a preview for the night. Leaving streaks of white, her perfectly manicured purple nails claw along his chest when she frees it from the buttons caging it in. Her fingers lay there feeling like frozen icicles, their coldness seeping into his skin sends a chill shooting down his spine, and it's got him sucking in the air that's contaminated with something foul to mar his senses.

 

Gasping and groaning, she's vocalizing all these unnecessary noises that are probably meant to encourage him but only makes him want to punish her for it, drag her away somewhere and teach her a lesson suitable for the deceit. Purging it from his mind the moment it manifests into a thought, he truly does not know where this terrible desire comes from. It's like the non-existent wind is sweeping it in from the outdoors, clouding his memory of who and what he is, transforming him into some despicable animal who's not meant to walk the streets, let alone be worthy of such pleasures.

Even so, he can't stop himself from pulling her against him, too weak to the hunger that's growling for more. More body, more mouth, more of anything but the noise. God, why can't she just shut the fuck up! Every break for air is not without commentary so he plasters his mouth against her cherry flavored lips, making a sticky mess of it. A death grip on her hair, it's the only thing that's keeping her put. She's mumbling something into his mouth, he feels the vibrations on his tongue, so he shoves it deeper, trying to stifle the noises.

 

The vibrations increase, rumbles down his throat, tickles almost. She's trying to say something but he's tired of listening to her so he doesn't stop, _can't_ stop, because whatever's come over him, it won't let him and there's nothing he can do about it. It's too powerful. Whenever he tries to push it away, it shoves back with ten times the force. And it's hanging over him, a dead weight on his shoulders too heavy for him to carry. So he's collapsing beneath it, losing himself in the chaos it creates in the wake of his destruction.

It's not even the kiss it started out to be. It's like he's trying to eat her face off to satisfy this monstrous hunger. It's the kind of starvation that doesn't feel natural. Like it'll never stop gnawing at him no matter how much he gives into its demands. He's frantically working his mouth over hers, fixing it there for a permanent stay. She doesn't seem to like that, and right now he doesn't seem to care. He just wants her to shut up for one goddamn minute.

Her palms add pressure to his chest. More and more until he finally breaks off, gulping down air like he can never get enough of it, and that's when her hand makes contact with the side of his face.

 

 

Admittedly, he deserved it. Thankful for it, actually.

 

It stings for a good ten seconds, and the blur of his vision can only make out the back of her six-inch heels as she shuffles up the stairs. The impact restored his senses. Whatever influence he was under, whatever spell enslaved him, it's completely gone. And he hates how sure he is that that's the only reason he's not chasing after her.

 

Johnny waits. Lets it simmer, lets it sink in before finally making his exit. Fingers aimlessly fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, he's shocked by his own actions.

What the fuck was that? What was he thinking? How far was he going to take it? Man, he doesn't know what the hell's gotten into him. Doesn't even know who he is anymore. And it scares him a lot more than he's ever willing to admit.

Rubbing away the sticky residue--or more as to transfer it to the sleeve of his jacket--he wants to spit her out of his mouth. Forget about her just as he has every other partner he'd kick out onto the curb once they had served their purpose. But instead he's the one standing out here, needs unfulfilled, and he's too disgusted with himself to despise her for it. What happened back there, that loss of control--it's unlike him.

  
He's only taken three steps outside and it all just feels wrong.  
Because here he is walking the streets when all he really wants to do is fly. Far away. From here. From New York. From everyone.

 

"Uneventful evening, I presume?”

That voice. It only belongs to one person.

“Daken?”  
The blond whips around, twisting fast on his heel, and there he finds him leaning up against the entry of the doorway Johnny had just stepped foot outside of not more than two seconds ago. How long has he been standing there?

“That was quite a show.” Though Johnny can't see it, he can hear the smile the words fell from.

The shadows bathing him a mystery created him a wonder. It suits him well. There's only so much Johnny knows about the guy. And he knows only what Daken lets him know. Nothing more, nothing less. And that fact alone leaves him with mixed feelings.

With the darkness masking it, it's hard to make out the expression on his face, and Johnny hadn't seen it for so long he almost hates him for it. He disappears for months on end. No heads up, no goodbyes. Just like his powers—one day they're there and the next day they're not. Johnny doesn't know how he does it but it's like he just falls off the face of the Earth. There's no way to contact him, no way to track him. He's just gone. When Daken doesn't want to be found, he _can't_ be found. Johnny knows this because he's tried. He's looked and looked and came up with nothing. You think him dead until one day when he shows up out of the blue.

Although Johnny hates him for it, still, he can't deny how much he misses that face. He's willing to make the first move just to see if it lives up to the memory, but before he gets the chance, Daken saves him the trouble. He gives himself away by stepping out into the spotlight cast down upon the Manhattan sidewalk.

 

The first thing Johnny looks for is that smile. It's always the first thing to catch his eye—anyone's eye, really—because he has the kind of smile that makes you feel special. When he shows it to you, you honestly believe it's for you and no one else. And after you've seen it, it's all you think about for days.

 

His smiles are his favorite thing about him.

 

That doesn't mean he's stupid. Johnny knows there is always something behind it, though he could never quite figure out what exactly. Something's there. Something, even after all these years, he doesn't have the slightest clue of. Probably because it's so nice that what you see on the surface is what distracts you from it. Or maybe sometimes that's all he chooses to see.

Johnny's got a few smiles of his own but they could never so much as even come close to those of Daken's. The guy's got too many. A huge arsenal of them. One for every occasion.  
Johnny hasn't seen them all but he's all ready picked his favorites.

  
The one Daken wore the night they stood together atop the Baxter Building, looking out over the city. That night his smile was as honest as his words. And Johnny wished he'd had taken the time to memorize it a little better because he hadn't seen it since.

Then there's that one smile he puts on for him when no one else is in the room. The smile that grows bigger when he moves closer and whispers nice things in his ear. The smile Johnny's felt along his lips and all over his body. He likes that one the best. On lonely nights that's the one he thinks about.

 

The one Daken's sporting right now, however, isn't like the rest. It's new. It's barely there. Johnny hasn't seen it before and he imagines that in this moment he's the only one who ever has. It looks—well, it's hard to describe. Vulnerable? Sad? Apologetic? None of those things have anything in common with him. Daken's the exact opposite of all of that--Johnny knows that now. It's strange to see. But that's not the only thing that's off about him.

A plain black t-shirt, jeans affordable for any commoner on the street, and a classic pair of converse sneakers with the tiniest hint of a scuff at the toes made up his attire. It was too casual, too unusual—well, for him. It reminds Johnny of the day he first met him. Daken had broken in, somehow managing to bypass their security, and stood there at their doorway. Nothing fancy, nothing formal. Just him with his smiles and all his words. He stuck his hand out, offering friendship. Something, Johnny figured, was worth remembering during his many times of absence.

  
Since that day, Johnny'd come to know him better. He's very particular when it comes to fashion. Won't accept anything without a designer's tag. It's his style. It's his thing. He likes to look good.  
And right now he doesn't look good. He looks like hell.

“Daken...”

“Johnny.” He responded with a simper too timid for character.

  
Something was wrong. Something was different. But he couldn't seem to pinpoint it because he couldn't break free from Daken's eyes. Caught as a prisoner, once they latched on they wouldn't let him go. And they were a pool of blackness, so dark you'd fall in and couldn't find your way out.

  
Those two eyes peering back at him didn't belong to the person he knew. They appeared worn. Sad even. Like something bad has happened and they were trying to tell him. But it was like communicating with someone who speaks a foreign language—there was no way of knowing what they were saying. Something was wrong, that's all instinct was telling him.

  
Then Daken was moving closer and when their eyes strayed from one another Johnny's voice almost caught in his throat because suddenly he knew what it was.

  
“Your arm.” The one with the tattoo. It was gone. It wasn't there. Just a stump of what it used to be. “What the hell happened to you?”

  
Daken didn't say anything, setting those dark eyes someplace else. Johnny supposes it was just another one of those things he didn't want him to know. And it's hard to feel sorry for someone like that. Someone who keeps secrets and only shares them for their own convenience.

Daken looks at him with those uncharacteristically sad eyes again and Johnny knows he won't tell. Whatever's happened will forever remain a mystery so long as it never leaves his mouth. Johnny gets it. It's frustrating but he knows how it works. So he changes the subject.

“What're you doing here in New York?”  
It leaves his mouth and he wants to take it back. Wants to tell him he doesn't care. That he can go back to whatever rock he's been hiding under for the past six months. But he can't help himself. He's got a soft spot for the guy. Daken just has that kind of affect on him.

  
There's the tiniest hint of consideration passing over his lovely face. Gleam of midnight moonlight striking it in all the right places puts it on display, and just seeing it takes Johnny's breath away. God dammit it's hard to breathe.

Old feelings make themselves known when Johnny's forced to stare him in the face. He wants to look away from it at the same time that he wants to sweep his hand along its structure to familiarize himself with it again. All its dips and curves, lies and truths. It's been so long since he's seen him, spoke with him, touched him, done... _things_ with him. It's a kind of cruel deprivation. Almost unforgivable.

Yet the more he approaches the quicker the mood is somehow shifting, and the sourness of it all isn't so bitter when the space is closing in between them. God he's beautiful.

 

“I wanted to see you.”

It's nice to hear, and usually Johnny'd swoon over it. But Daken's working something of a smile that doesn't fit quite right on his face, and it makes Johnny feel like he's playing games with him again.

Daken's one hand toys with the buttons on Johnny's shirt, staring at his exposed chest where it hadn't exactly been buttoned up all the way, and all Johnny wants to do is tell him to go fuck off. He wants to do what he does to him: just turn around, walk away and don't look back. Then show up months later and smile in your face like it was nothing. But Johnny can't because... because...

 

“Why?” 

Not just a playful retort, when Johnny finds himself truly wanting to know, his voice shakes with too much feeling and the word trembles in the air just as he does beneath the frozen sun. The strings holding those three letters together are wearing thinner with every passing second-- which are ticking by in agonizing anticipation as Daken's eyes never rise for contact and his lips have yet to part.

While the silence digs into him, eating him quicker than a viciously growing infection, Johnny decides he'll wait it out for however long it'll take, because what Daken said is honestly too good to be true. He can't let himself believe it but neither can Johnny help the parts of him that wants to believe it anyway. Wants to believe it so terribly bad and he knows he's a fool for it. The backlash of that heated shame is what makes him lock away whatever else he'd meant to say in that moment.

 

 

“We are friends, are we not?”

Daken finally speaks but he won't look at him. Can't look at him. Just peers down the length of Johnny's body, biting his lower lip to show that he likes what he sees. His fingers are no longer just toying with the pearl-swirled buttons, they're slipping them out of their loops, and while he does this Johnny doesn't know why but parts of his body likes where this is going too, so he doesn't stop him.  
There's other things on his mind though. Like to what exactly he owes this pleasure. Daken's here for a reason. He doesn't show up just for the heck of it.  
There's this urge creeping up inside him that's impossible to ignore when Daken hums something. The sound is telling him things, encouraging him to play along. Johnny's listened to that tune too many times to know it gets him nowhere.

  
No. That's not exactly true, is it?  
It does get him somewhere. It gets him hurt—though he'd never admit it to himself. So he keeps his hands at his sides. He doesn't dare touch, only ponders what Daken said and, on that account, what exactly their friendship has been. Just come and go is what it seems. Is that what friends do? Johnny doesn't have much friends so he honestly couldn't tell you.

 

He shrugged. “I dunno, man, you tell me.”

  
On Daken's part there's a pause in action, the tips of Daken's fingers hanging onto a thread that is still connected at the end yet had somehow broken loose on the other. He's studying the string like he's sniffing it out for a lie. He holds it but then he's twisting and wrapping it around his finger. A metaphor too strong, too bold, too true, it makes Johnny's heart drop and shrivel on its way down to the acidic pit of his stomach.

“We are friends.”

  
Daken's voice is sweet and his hand is on Johnny's chest now and it feels... warm. Feels nice. And then it's moving downward and suddenly it's becoming very difficult to breathe at a normal pace.

Dropping over the many waves of muscles, Daken's fingers are soft. So soft. Harmless. It's hard to believe they could cause such destruction. After what he'd done to New York, Johnny was sure he'd never see him again. Then there was news of his death and it hit home—hit hard. Feeling not just loss but an overwhelming amount of guilt that, even though Daken's never there for him when he needs him, Johnny still should've been there for him.  
After months of sulking, one day out of the blue Daken showed up and he laughed and it was just another one of those disappearing acts he'd pull. And just like all those other times, he didn't want to talk about it.

Even after all he's done... it's so easy to fall back into old ways. Because when Daken's this close, Johnny's a sucker in every sense of the word. Daken's mouth is ghosting over his and he wants to lean into it. He's so close he can practically taste him. Daken's waiting and he wants to meet him at the other end. Wants to do those things they do when no one's looking. But they're out in the open and it's not the first time he's found himself in this position with him. However, it is the first time he feels like he has a choice. The first time he feels like he could fight it, like nothing's pushing him, the air isn't so thick, he can concentrate, he could think about it and he could pull back. So the moment his breath hitches and his heart speeds up, Johnny catches himself.

"Friends stick around."

 

The way his brows sag, Daken looks disappointed. He almost looks hurt as he lets the distance grow between them. Johnny wanted to reach out to him just then, but he knows Daken and he won't let him in. What he doesn't know, though, is why Daken's really here. He never shows up unless he needs something. Then when you give it to him you don't see him again. And Johnny's tired of it. He's tired of worrying about him. He's so tired of caring about him. What the hell does he always want? Where does he go when he runs off? Why is Johnny the only one who cares? Why is it so hard to just let him go?

His voice was so low Johnny barely caught it. "Walk with me."

Daken moved past him and Johnny had a decision to make. He didn't have to follow. He could just walk away right now. Don't turn around. Don't follow him. Don't look back at him. Just walk forward. Just walk away. Let it go. Let him go. He doesn't care. Move your feet. Don't follow him. Don't do it. Let him go. Don't follow him.

 

Johnny followed him.

 

He walked beside Daken, consciously choosing the side where his good arm swayed because he couldn't stand to be on the one where it was missing. The sight of it alone was enough to raise his blood pressure. Someone hurt him, someone did this to him. They took something from him. Something he could never get back. Johnny knows what it feels like. To be missing a part of yourself. To feel incomplete. He hates the feeling. But Johnny also knows people can't see what he is lacking, but with Daken... everyone can see it. And Johnny can't imagine what that must feel like.

 

He looks at him and he can see he's hurting and Johnny hates the ones responsible for it. He wants to do something but there's nothing he could do about it. He's just a normal person now. Completely useless. Then, suddenly, Johnny found himself wanting to hold his hand. He doesn't know why. Maybe it just feels like the useless thing to do. So he reaches his hand out and... grabbed the air. He changed his mind, curling his fingers into his palm and shoving them deep into his jacket pockets.

Save for the occasional car horns and tire skids, they step in complete silence. Where they are going, he doesn't know. They're just walking and he's counting every step he takes along the way. Fifty three steps in and Johnny can't help but to feel like he's made a mistake. He should've walked away. Here he is giving him what he wants. Again. This is why he does it. Because he knows he'll get what he wants. He knows he'll get away with it. So stupid. Should've just left. Just let him go. Idiot. Why does Johnny always give in? Should've just walked away when he had the chance.

 

"You're angry with me." He hears him, but Johnny can't face him. Not with what he's about to say.

 

"I'm not." It's a lie. Johnny knows it and he knows Daken knows it too.

 

"You're lying." And there it is. No point in denying it now. He'll always know when you're lying but you'll never know when he is. Which isn't very fair, and Johnny sort of resents him for it. Resents him for a lot of things, actually.

 

"How am I supposed to feel?" It all comes rushing back to him-- the anger, the abandonment he felt all those months ago. He can't forgive him for it. Not this time. "I text, no reply; I call, you don't pick up; I actually e-mailed you too, but, hey, empty inbox."

 

"There were things that needed to be taken care of."

 

"Heh. Busy man." It's sarcasm, and it slides right off his artificially cherry flavored tongue. "What the hell is always so goddamn important all the time that you can't even return one phone call?"

 

Daken won't answer him. Johnny knows it. And that's exactly what happens. Daken's mouth is shut, expression blank when he turns away. He's getting predictable.

 

"For once, will you please answer me?"

Johnny's practically begging and it's no surprise when he doesn't get what he's asking for. And it hurts every time. Not because Daken can't answer but because he simply chooses not to. What is he always hiding? What is he so afraid to say? Why won't he ever talk him? Why won't he just--

"SAY SOMETHING!" It's loud, it's sudden and it's demanding and he doesn't know where it came from but he's not sorry for it. They've stopped moving. His hand's on Daken's good arm and he doesn't have the slightest idea of how it got there. He can't control his emotions. They're everywhere, constantly shifting, he's feeling everything all at once and he just... snapped.

 

Daken hadn't even flinched almost like he was expecting it. Standing there looking like a wounded puppy, he stopped walking too and there's something written on his face. But Johnny can't seem to read it clearly. He never knows what he's trying to tell him unless he says it. And most times not even then.

 

"I'm sorry," Daken says, and it hurts to hear because that's not what it says on his face. Johnny likes to think he knows what Daken looks like when he's sincerely sorry, and what he's showing him isn't what he'd had in mind. No. Daken's lying and Johnny's had enough.

 

"No, you're not! The first time, you're sorry; the second time, you're sorry! This is the fifth time, Daken. You don't get to be sorry! You're gone for months and then come back to me looking like this?! What the hell happened to you?"

 

"It's not important."

 

"It's important to me!"

 

"It's gone. It's not coming back." He won't meet Johnny's eyes no matter how much Johnny chased them. Eventually they landed on the ground where he couldn't follow."It's not important."

 

He doesn't want to talk about it. That's all Johnny knows. That's all he'll ever know. That Daken came back one day one arm short and he didn't want to talk about it.  
It's hard to accept but what other choice does he have?

No. Wait. There are other choices. He can walk away. Turn his back. Leave him here. He doesn't have to accept this.  
But then what kind of a friend would he be?

Suddenly, he's feeling this push. Something thick in the air that's telling him to run away. To leave and not look back. It's a strong urge and he doesn't know where it came from but he can't shake it off. Just go. Leave him. Run. Go. Forget him. He doesn't care. Run and don't look back. Move your feet. Do it. Go. Now. Stop thinking about it and go. Run. Just run and don't stop. Run.

 

 

"Why are you still here?"

 

 

It's Daken. The last word falls from his mouth and just like that it's all gone. No more second guessing. Johnny can breathe again. It's easy to stay.

Daken's in front of him and he looks as confused as Johnny feels. His right hand just hangs there, as if without the other he just doesn't know what to do with it.

 

"Why didn't you run?" It comes out mean and it fits because suddenly Daken looks mad, features contorted into something impossibly ugly and nasty. Something Johnny'd never seen before--could never imagine overtaking such a graceful face. He almost doesn't recognize him. And Johnny can't answer him because there's not one thing that can come out of his mouth that wouldn't be a lie.

 

Johnny shakes his head as if to clear it. "I don't know..." The air's so thick it's hard to think.

 

"Yes, you do." Eyes narrowing into thin slits, Daken's menacing forward, words slithering out of a locked jaw. Johnny falls backwards and the pole presses into his back when he runs out of sidewalk. With Daken breathing over him, this growing hunger in his eyes a feral beast threatening to jump out, tear his face off and eat him alive-- intimidation, fear: that's what Johnny expects to feel. Not this blinding anger of red rage that's strong enough to cloud his judgement. It comes out of nowhere, too heavy for him to handle. It's like it doesn't belong to him. Misplaced energy burning hot in his veins, destined for someone else with the proper capacity and experience to wield. Granted this power, without questioning its origins, instead, Johnny utilizes it to induce the kind of courage he needs to fight back.

 

"This isn't about me." He says it and it sounds so small to his own ear, lacking all the fire he had felt engulfing him just seconds before. The tension in his brow relaxes as the ire burning within him suddenly fizzes out and evaporates into the air as if it had never been there to begin with. And once again he's completely powerless.

 

Daken's newly found calmness revives his beauty, features now soft and forgiving. "Then let's make this about you."

 

Voice sugary sweet like candy, Johnny's getting lost in the kindness of Daken's twinkling eyes. They shine bright in the dark, mysterious twins making promises they surely can't keep. They hold no emotion, just nothing but pure beauty. Not many people get this close to appreciate how pretty they truly are. Glued to the pole, caught between it and Daken's chest, there's nowhere else Johnny'd rather be. "What is it that _you_ want?"

 

The smile Daken saves for empty rooms shows itself for the very first time that night and, being out in the open for all eyes to see, it betrays everything it stands for. Even so, there's no urge to push him away. But, still, the sight of it makes Johnny's throat hurt too much to talk.

 

"I'll tell you." Daken's head tilts to the left. Pitch black hair, the particular style, without the aid of products, leaves it no choice but to fall to one side. It sweeps along his forehead carelessly, yet with such elegance.

Hand to Johnny's chest, a swollen heart pounding beneath it, chin resting along the slope of his shoulder, Daken's lips are dangerously close to his ear. Then they brush against it and the whisper they emit is so gentle and quiet, Johnny almost doesn't catch the malice behind them. "You want me to hurt you."

 

Johnny doesn't really want to hear them. All he wants to do is _taste_ the mean words on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

"Tell me, Johnny. Is this not what you had in mind for your evening?"

He can't say no. Especially since the building sensations burning low in his belly is suggesting he's already on the edge of his peak when nothing much has even happened, well considering they're both still fully clothed-- with the exception to Daken's shirt, which found itself on the floor the second they pushed their way through the door.

God, it's impossible to think when things escalate this quickly. No room to make rational decisions-- if ever there are any.

Just movements, going with what your body's telling you to do. Following through with what it wants. It's easier this way. It's how he's always lived his life. Do first, think later. There's nothing complicated about it. Nothing but body and mouth and the occasional moans that slip up without your permission.

 

The bed beneath him, Daken above him, right now this all his body wants. Never felt so desperate for it in his entire life. Whatever Daken's doing with that one hand, it makes his mind go blank. A temporary shortage in the system. What the hell is he doing down there?

Even with Daken's hair draped over his face, mouth over his, tongue wild and adventurous, defeating his in every battle-- even with all that's going on, Johnny can only hear himself. All those faint little whimpers that escape his throat even when he attempts to hold it back. It rings in his ears, making him cringe. God, he sounds so pathetic. So needy. So...so--

Shit. He feels like he's almost there.

Heart's racing so fast he's pretty sure it could compete in the Olympics. Perhaps even come in first. Which is actually kind of funny considering the situation.

 

“Daken. Daken. Oh fuck, man. Slow down.”

It's too soon. Can't let it end just yet. Not like this.

 

“Oh.” Daken pauses, slowly weakening the firm grip on Johnny's cock. “Selfish, are we?”

 

Johnny swallows down the guilt. “No. No, I just want it to last. For the both of us, ya know?”

It's embarrassing-- the fact that he can't last longer than an inexperienced horny teenager. Yet it really shouldn't surprise him all that much. Whenever he's with Daken like this it's always difficulty to hold on. The very moment his back hit the mattress it's been nothing but a constant climb to his climax. This wild fire crackling at the edges even when Daken's barely touching him, barely licking him, not even putting his mouth where he really needs it to be. A terrible tease it is, Johnny finds himself gripping onto the sheets a little tighter, willing himself to hold on just a little bit longer because the quicker this is over the quicker he probably won't ever see him again.

 

“Then perhaps you should tend to me,” Daken says, smile small and enticing.

 

Johnny blinks stupidly. Then nods. “Okay.”

 

Daken takes his hand, guides it to place it on his hardened crotch, over the rough fabric of his jeans all ready somewhat damp with just a dab of pre-cum. It's been so long since Johnny's done something like this with him—another guy—the feel of it throws him off a bit. Makes him nervous.

And he has no explanation for it. Just doesn't know why. It's not like they haven't done this before. To be completely honest, they've done it too many times to keep count. But it has been awhile. Six months is a long time-- that's the only excuse he can come up with.

 

 

“Do as I do,” Daken tells him once he's straddled him again. With the lack of an arm to prop him up, it's the only position that could work.

 

Hand now resting back down below Johnny's waistline where it was previously, it's moving again, rubbing all the right spots so much so that Johnny almost doubts his pants are still on. Because even with the barrier of cloth between them, it's feeling as if it's just pure skin on skin contact. He doesn't know how he does it and Johnny's hips jerk into it, trying to catch a feel for the movement.

As simple a task as it is, with gentle squeezes Johnny tries to mimic the motion, shuts his eyes to imagine it visibly, focus on it and follow its path. Not sure he's doing it right though because Daken hasn't made the slightest sound, no kind of indication of satisfaction. Bulge aching in his palm, Johnny doesn't know how to please it and from behind the curtains of his lids he can feel the tension of Daken's eyes on him. Sharp, piercing jabs of discontent.

 

Johnny's too afraid to open his eyes, too afraid to confront what he'll find looking back at him. So he's blindly trying to fix whatever it is he's doing wrong.

 

Just when Johnny thinks he's got it right, Daken's switching things up down there and suddenly there's a hot, massive wave of pleasure rolling over him that's hard to ignore, hard to concentrate, hard to think-- making a lot of things extra hard actually.

Things are getting fuzzy. Breath is getting short and heavy. More noises are finding their way past his lips. He's getting so caught up in his own sensitivity he falls flat on a rhythm, fingers fumbling a bit too late.

His eyes fly open when he hears Daken laugh, mocking his poor efforts. A taunting, dark tune it is. It never shakes or breaks off, just sort of fades away like an ending to a sad song.

 

Too abashed to look him in the eye, Johnny apologizes to the ceiling. “Sorry.” Searches for mercy though all he can see are the judgments in its cracks.

 

“Don't be.” Looming over him, the tips of Daken's hair are long enough to reach Johnny's forehead. They prickle against his skin, a scratch he can't itch. He can't do it. Can't face him with this kind of failure. But Daken's forcing himself into his line of vision and his voice is so tender and so forgiving it erases all the shame. “Just lie here and be beautiful.”

 

So Johnny does just that. After all, he's proved himself to be utterly useless. What else can he do?

 

 

While Daken's kisses explore other parts of his body, Johnny watches the grey-bluish walls. There's a single shelf, protruding out by just a few inches, decorated with all these nice little trinkets Johnny imagines Daken's found around town. Or perhaps souvenirs he brought back with him from where ever it is he goes. There's something funny about that. About Daken specifically picking out these tiny things-- these same tiny things he'll turn around and say mean nothing to him.

The varying styles shows he finds beauty in all kinds of things. Things Johnny wouldn't give more than two seconds of his attention to. Though, the longer he looks at these items the more he supposes there's a certain degree of splendor to them.

 

There's a nightstand beside the bed. Nothing aside from a book lays at the edge of it. It looks pretty thick and, judging from the flatness of the cover, appears untouched. He can't make out the title from this angle, but even if he could he wagers he wouldn't recognize it anyway. It's probably something philosophical. Something historical or equally boring of the nature. It's just the kind of thing he'd like. Things Johnny finds no entertainment in, can't possibly understand. Perhaps that's the reason he could never figure him out. They're just two very different people on opposite sides of the spectrum.

 

Above the headboard, a nail to the wall holds up a painting. He's no art expert but he's been dragged along to too many art galleries not to know it'd most likely be classified as abstract. An easy assumption to make since it's the kind that makes no sense. A pretty splash of colors. That's all it is. Pointless. Nothing special about it. It's just pretty with nothing else to offer. At least that's what he sees. He wonders why he chose it. Wonders what it reminds Daken of when he sees it.

 

Although he hasn't been beyond this one room, he can easily tell--it's simply quite obvious it's a nice apartment. High-end. Beyond even Johnny's price range--that's how expensive. Probably Tony Stark expensive if he starts crunching numbers. Must cost a fortune. Johnny doesn't know what Daken does for a living. Doesn't know how the hell he can possibly afford any of the things he does. 

And Johnny's almost certain it's better off that way.

 

Daken's a leech on his neck and when Johnny feels Daken's fingers creeping their way downwards towards his belt he instantly knows he's in for the treat he's been waiting for, been fantasizing about for the past six months. His cock throbs excitedly at the anticipation of it, at the mere thought of Daken's wet hot mouth wrapped around him, pulling and sucking him dry at the head with a suction stronger than the one he's currently got on his neck. Making him scream his name before he has the chance to see stars floating around the room. Fuck. He feels he's gonna explode just thinking about it.

 

Instead of his head bobbing between his thighs Daken's one and only hand is still fidgeting with his belt. Jammed somehow, it seems he's having trouble with it and Johnny just lays there, not knowing what to do. If it's okay to intervene or not-- he just doesn't know what kind of action is appropriate.

Thumb gliding over the buckle, Daken's shuffling it about only makes the entire belt shift back and forth in the loops of Johnny's jeans. The heavy breathing Daken pushes out through his nose rises up from the depths of his lungs, hits hot against Johnny's cheek, and is all that suggests his exasperation with its refusal to cooperate to his liking.

Meanwhile, Johnny embarks on a separate mission to deal with his own pent up sexual frustrations as his poor dick's still pulsating for attention. Right now his one and only duty is to himself-- keep things _up_ on his end that is. This entire ordeal is putting a damper on the mood. Feeling his hard-on growing softer as the clock ticks and tocks, Johnny's trying to rely on his imagination to keep the blood flowing south. But Daken's tugs and groans keep drawing him back to reality.

 

No longer sucking the living hell out of his neck, Johnny keeps still, arms at his side, too unsure of what to do as Daken's repositioning himself above him. In a blink Johnny sees it bleeding red and blindingly bright behind his blackened eyes. Brows pulled low, jaw set for battle, Daken's firmly set on overcoming this inconvenient obstacle even if he has to kill a man to get through the process of it.

 

A rough yank nearly lifts Johnny off the bed. "Okay. Ow. That kinda hurt." He adds a stupid laugh to it that doesn't actually plead his case, instead contrasts his predicament.

The more Daken pulls on it, the more it tightens around Johnny's waist. With the amount of solid force and strength he puts into it, being on the other end of it is almost unbearably painful.

He tries to make it better known with an audible grunt but Daken's too keen on defeating this long leathered enemy to notice. The weight of him falls heavy on his lap and the belt is a rope knotted so tight around him Johnny almost worries he just might lose all circulation to his lower half.

 

"Daken. Hey. Take it easy." He's not listening. It's like he's in some other world. Some place far away, some place Johnny can't reach. He's just lost somewhere in his own body.

Johnny can't identify the person on top of him anymore. He's not even a person, actually more of an animal. A drooling, horrific beast with this ugly, uncontrollable rage that's dictating his entire being. The disgusting nature of its ways, this animal's trying to tear them both apart and is wearing Daken's skin like a costume to do it. He's never seen him in this kind of state before. What the hell's gotten into him?

 

It has yet to come loose and he can't tell who's more stubborn-- Daken or this god damn stupid belt. Doesn't matter. At this point, following another pull, Johnny decides he can't take it anymore and drops his hand down, fully aware of the risk he's subjecting himself to by doing so.

"I can do it!" Daken practically barks it. A spike of frustration too evident to miss. The kind of aggravation reserved for something much less trivial.

Johnny retreated his hand back while he still had the chance because the glare Daken gave him warned that if he didn't he just might lose it.

"I'm just trying to help," he sulked. He can't understand what the big deal is, why Daken won't just accept his offer. It's not like he's meaning to insult him or anything. Just leave him here to this struggle, is that what he must do? Is that what he really wants?

"Your assistance is not necessary." Daken bites out, sounding like he's saying it more to convince himself than anyone else.

 

In the beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, Johnny finally realizes what's going on here. Daken's trying to prove something. Not to anyone but himself.  And so he can't give up. Giving up means he's allowing this disability to claim him, define him. It's a crippling fear of his--being incapable. Having no control or power over the situation.

 

The loss is not the same, but in some weird way Johnny feels like he can relate. Not being able to do the things you used to do, the things you took for granted and never gave a second thought to-- it leaves you paralyzed. The kind of change evolution doesn't apply to, it's just a false sense of adjustment. No matter how long you'll live without it you'll always miss its presence. Forever waking up to a cruel smidgen of hope where you were half expecting it to be there. You never truly realize how much you need it--how much it determines your worth-- until it's gone. A powerless, useless cripple, that's how Johnny feels every waking second of every minute of every passing hour. Judging from the hint of sadness in his eyes, he imagines Daken feels somewhat the same.

 

"Hey. Hey." Johnny soothes. "It's okay. Do you hear me? It's gonna be alright." He says these words without actually believing them for himself. There's no hope beyond what little he has. Days will only get longer and darker and soon the sun will burn out completely. That's his eventual fate, he knows that. But for Daken... it doesn't have to be that way. "Daken. Are you listening to me?"

 

He doesn't think Daken can actually hear him, and if he had it's done absolutely nothing to persuade because his vigor still will not let up. He's fighting with it, this stupid belt, and there's this awful snarl poisoning his beauty. Deteriorating him beyond recognition.

 

Daken's scowl gives away all of his secrets and, for what is not the first time, Johnny refuses to believe what he sees. He pulls his gaze from what he convinces himself to be a false image and settles it elsewhere.

 

Johnny has no sense of time in regards to how long its been going on. It's just yank and pull, pull and yank, no real method to it anymore. It's like he'll rip Johnny in half to find himself victorious in the end. But that doesn't seem very practical. Not to him and apparently not to Daken either. Honestly, he isn't expecting it when it happens. It's a few yanks later, and Daken's entirely drained of whatever it was that was fueling him.

 

Finally deeming it a task too demanding for his capabilities, the belt slides out of his sweaty palm and his eyes recover from that terrible rage that still haunt them at the corners. Something flickers over his face, an expression too scrambled to decipher. Almost like Daken doesn't know what to display so he's presenting a mixture of everything it could possibly be because he simply doesn't know what it is he's actually feeling.

 

 

 

 

Johnny steadies his eyes on the side wall of the room. Levels them on the small shelf and all its little trinkets. He doesn't know why. He guesses it's just his way of giving him some sort of privacy. Though it's kind of lame, he hopes Daken appreciates it. 

 

 

 

 

 

But it's clear he doesn't. Daken's moving off and away from him, showing Johnny his back from the edge of the bed.

The bold black linings of his tattoo stands out against the pigment of his skin. Johnny remembers the times he'd trace it under his fingertips starting with the small of his back and following it up to the path that swirls around his left shoulder and leads down to his forearm. When he'd reached the end of the pattern he'd often use it as an excuse to hold his hand. Daken'd pretend he hadn't noticed or even cared, but Johnny likes to think he did.

The tattoo. Daken would often catch him staring at it, as it wasn't always just for the simple admiration of his body. Johnny had this obsessive fascination with it. It was interesting. A design he never could quite figure out. Never could work up the nerve to ask him about it either. But he liked to look at it. A little game to see how long it'd take for him to put together what exactly it was. A snake is what he kept getting hung up on, though he never brought it up for confirmation. Well, whatever it had been Johnny'd always look forward to seeing it again. In spite of that, however, he supposes he no longer has any reason to.

Now it only intertwines its way partially down whatever's left of the length of Daken's arm and it'll forever remain an incomplete puzzle Johnny'll never be able to piece together. Another mystery unsolved. 

 

 

“Do you see what I am?” Daken whispers, voice a bit too ragged for the perfect monotonous ring he was surely going for.

The utterance too cryptic for any real interpretation, Johnny doesn't quite know what to make of it. And there's no one way to answer it either, because when Johnny looks at Daken he sees a lot of things. Beauty first and foremost as it is what Daken flaunts the most. The kind of extraordinary beauty that's rare to come by, though the path Johnny's taken to stumble upon it he's fairly certain isn't entirely as coincidental as events would suggest it to be. It wasn't the pure work of fate, he knows that much. Nevertheless, they found each other and although Johnny tries his best to content himself with what Daken's generosity greets him with on the surface, curiosity often gets the better of him.

 

The outer winsome Daken infatuates him with, Johnny appreciates it. Not only that but also the qualities that transcend those conceivable to the naked eye. Far beyond his charm and alluring smiles, there is the potential for greatness. The remarkable kind of brilliance only possessed by those truly gifted. If Daken really wanted to Johnny bets he could take over the world. He's got the pretty face for it. Even the leadership skills it requires. It's always been there, Johnny's seen it, though at times when it might have been exploited for all the wrong reasons. Even so, Daken's got a good heart and Johnny wishes he wouldn't consult it so seldom.

 

Hunched over, head hanging low so that the ends of his hair trail along the bend of his neck, that's the only picture Johnny has to work with. It's not the confidence Daken holds himself with. In fact, it contrasts all he's made himself to appear to be.

The terrible truth is Johnny knows Daken well enough to know that he's not the most honest. And in turn, Johnny also knows himself well enough to know that he's often too gullible to Daken's version of sincerity. Not only that but, admittedly, he's too selfish. Even when Johnny's highly suspicious, he's careful not to get too carried away if only not to deny himself of the simple pleasures Daken offers.

What's happening right here and right now is the complete opposite of what Johnny would have ever imagined to come of this night, because what Daken is showing him is too honest. It's too raw, it's too real, it's too unlike him. It's too painful to watch.

 

“I'm weak. Flawed.” Daken says. By the sound of it—the frail weariness laced in the words—it's a recent revelation he thoroughly believes to be true. Of all the things that've crossed Johnny's mind, those words were not anywhere among them.

No. Because those are the kind of words Johnny'd use to describe himself. Not Daken. No matter what condition or circumstance. Never Daken.

 

Crawling over to his side, Johnny peers at him from over his shoulder. Dark lashes fluttering along the polished view of the wooden floors, Daken looks so terribly defeated, wholly exhausted as if he hasn't slept for days. The lay of Daken's brows, the slight furrow to them, tells Johnny that this is all much more than what he'd initially bargained for. Suddenly it's a sight Johnny doesn't feel entitled to and wishes he didn't have the privilege to witness.

 

"No, Daken. Stop. You're none of those things." But Daken's not really listening to him. How could he blame him. Johnny can empathize with him more than he lets on. Holds back the truth, though, fearing Daken'll look at him differently. See him for what he really is. A powerless, helpless, nobody. He doesn't want that. No. Daken's already lost so much, he can't tarnish whatever perception he has of him too.

 

"Why didn't you run when I told you to?"

Johnny doesn't know what that means but he knows better than to ask. There's this look on Daken's face Johnny had never seen before. Something that can easily be mistaken for anger but Johnny knows it when he sees it. It's pain. Something that's hurting him deep inside. A place Johnny had never been able to touch. Daken would never let him get that close. Always quick to push away at the last second. It's all over his face. He's sad. He can see it in his eyes. And Johnny doesn't want to see it. He just wants it gone. Whatever it takes.

"What did you come here for, Daken? What do you want, what do you need? Whatever it is, just tell me. I'll get it for you. We'll make this better. What do you need me to do? Daken, please... tell me."

In all the years he's known him, Daken's never looked so broken and vulnerable. What happened? Who could have possibly done this to him?

 

"Hold me."

 

It's an unusual request that surely takes him by surprise. But it's too apparent that Daken needs it and so Johnny doesn't question, only obliges; slowly wrapping his arms around him while keeping careful watch for signs of resistance.

Though the positioning in which he does it is somewhat awkward and uncomfortable, he holds him there and Daken pretends like he doesn't acknowledge it. His expression gives nothing away and so Johnny can only wonder what he's thinking. If it's weird for him and how often he'd let someone get this close. Wonders where he goes when he's gone, and maybe if he'd tell him about his adventures someday. Perhaps even take him along. Or if Johnny'd ever cross his mind at times. On lonely nights when no one was around, Johnny wonders if it's his face he'd think of.

He wonders things he'll probably never know. 

 

It's an odd feeling, but Johnny likes holding him in this way. Something about having him near like this makes him feel close to him in a manner he'd never been able to be. The lack of limb only makes it easier to enclasp him tighter and when he does Daken breathes out slowly, letting his lids drop as the air flows out steadily from his chest. He deflates, sagging with the exhalation, wiggling free of the embrace afterward.

 

"Are you okay?" Johnny asks dumbly, patting him on the shoulder just as Reed would do.

 

Still playing oblivious to the events, Daken peered over to him out of the corners of his eyes, revealing just a tiny glimpse into the new kind of softness to them.

"Limit your concerns to your own well-being," Daken says and Johnny can't help the smile that curves his mouth. A bit harsh, yes. But Johnny knew the gratitude it conveyed. Even as Daken chased his lips again, returning a favor Johnny didn't ask for but accepts all the same.

  
 

* * *

 

 

 

When Johnny wakes, he reaches out for a hand that's not there. The bed is empty. Dark and cold. Sheets on the opposite end neatly in place as if no one had ever lain in them.

 

There's no sign of him but Daken was here. The taste of him still lingering in the corners of his mouth, the scent of him embedded in the stitches of the pillow covering, the ghost of his touch that has yet to fade-- these are the only things he left behind for Johnny to keep. Which is fitting since they're just temporary oddments that won't stick around longer than a day.

Johnny all ready knows that by now the entire state is void of his presence, or, who knows, maybe even the entire country. Where ever he's gone Daken has taken his book, his picture, and all his little trinkets to accompany him on his travels. He takes all these dispensable, insignificant things with him while he leaves Johnny behind, naked in his bed. And Johnny doesn't quite know what to make of that.

Johnny feels it, the pang in his chest, and hates the feeling even though he knows he deserves it. Done it to too many people not to. And although he's been here before it still hurts. Especially coming from _him_. Even though it's expected.

It always ends this way. There's too much precedence behind it to take it personally anymore. In the past, regardless of whether it was because he needed something or not, Daken would return to him. Apologies made not necessarily in the form of words is how they'd kill the time leading up to the moment Daken would finally ask for their help. And good god by then Johnny'd do anything in his power to supply him with whatever it was he needed. Willing to scour to the ends of the earth just to get it for him. Johnny'd do absolutely anything and all Daken had to do was ask. 

And once Daken had gotten what he'd asked for, Johnny wouldn't see or hear from him the next day. It's a tiring, tormentive routine. Yet Johnny still plays his part in it every time. Reprises the role that comes natural to him. Plays the fool and executes it perfectly.

It makes Daken happy but Johnny doesn't find comfort in knowing that, considering how distraught it leaves him afterward. It's an awful mess he didn't necessarily make all himself but is left to clean up all by his lonesome anyway. He's never been good at cleaning up properly. Usually always has another eye scrutinizing over him to ensure he won't miss a spot. But during clean ups like these there's no Susan there yelling over his shoulder to point it out to him. No. This isn't something he'd ever let her know about. And so without her assistance he'll definitely miss a spot--the tiniest, microscopic crumb that will choose to make itself known at the most inopportune moments. Particularly in the face of the man who was responsible for it all. And by then there would be absolutely nothing he could do about it. The outcome never varies, no matter what predicament they find themselves in, it's the only thing that remains constant.

And now all Johnny can do is wait and hope that one day Daken will show up again out of the blue.

**Author's Note:**

> blehh if ur reading this it means u made it to the end haha bless ur soul go take a really long nap lmaoo


End file.
